


Coxie Talk

by fenella



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenella/pseuds/fenella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Easy There" by Syllic is probably better known as the Merlin Rowing AU. I love that fic. I've read it a few times, and while I appreciate the posh boys, the honour and glory of sport, and their bad sex, I always wanted more irrelevant details about their boring training grind on their road to the Cambridge/Oxford boat race. So I got all up in your Merlin/Arthur fic with some more rowing fic. Lots of erg talk and no sex at all. I hope no one minds!</p><p>* also with an appearance by the Oxford Women's team...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coxie Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Easy There](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197) by [syllic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllic/pseuds/syllic). 



> And on YouTube: [Pete Cipollone and USA Men's Eight, Head of the Charles, 1997](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BkxogyzhmAE). Listen from about 13min and onwards :) The calls that I have Pete make in this fic are from memory and probably fictionalized... he's the boss.

Merlin liked to listen to cox recordings. That was to say, audio of other coxwains training or racing with their crews. He would often end up listening to them as a soundtrack while otherwise occupied with eating, or writing essays, or even napping. The combined effort of actually showing up to train for the boat race, and attempting to pass his courses, it didn't exactly leave him much time for independent study. But the recordings of word class coxes gave him valuable ideas for new calls, and different approaches with the boys in the boat.

He didn't mind the way that rowing, coxing, had gradually seeped into every moment of his waking - and sometimes sleeping - life. The voices of the men and women leading their crews to various wins or losses were welcome company in Merlin's quiet university room. He loved the variety, too, the way that the coxswain's personalities translated into everything from quiet intensity to raw, aggressive enthusiasm.

With his bulky headphones on, eyes closed and tipped back in his chair in a precarious balancing act, Merlin completely failed to noticed Arthur's blonde head appear around the cracked door to his room.

"I knocked-" Arthur was stating defensively, as if Merlin could hear him, when Merlin opened his eyes, looked over and nearly jumped out of his skin. The sudden movement caused Merlin's chair to flail backwards, yanking the headphone jack from his laptop speaker system.

"Alright boys. Push-aaaah, Push-aaaah." Pete Cipollone's aggressively American accent filled the room, accompanied by the unmistakeable cadence of oars entering and exiting the water.

Merlin's arms windmilled comically through the air, landing on the edge of his open desk drawer, the forward pull narrowly saving his head from a hard landing on the floor. His head phones slid backwards, the thin cord wrapping his neck like a noose.

Arthur blinked. "You're busy."

"Nah," said Merlin, trying not to giggle hysterically.

Arthur's posture stiffened slightly. "I'll come back-"

Merlin exhaled a small breathe, before pushing himself to his feet. He reached for the volume control on his computer and tapped down several times. The Americans continued to thunder down the Charles River in a somewhat quieter manner.

"CALLAHAN, THIS IS YOUR FUCKING SEAT RACE," bellowed Cipollone's now tiny voice over the speaker system in the boat. "MOVE."

Arthur and Merlin exchanged a small, involuntary grin, before the mask of politeness returned to Arthur's features.

"I was trying to nap, but I couldn't sleep," said Arthur. His tone held the sleepy petulance of a three year old.

"So you came here," returned Merlin slowly.

"Obviously," Arthur rolled his eyes.

When Merlin didn't immediately respond, Arthur clicked he tongue against his teeth impatiently. "I'm unbelievably exhausted, Emrys. Everything hurts. I don't have the energy to listen to you state the obvious. I can practically hear the gears in your head clicking into place."

"Charming. So, what - you figured I would have some bear tranquillizers and a heat pack in my Mary Poppins bag of coxswain tricks?"

Arthur smiled, finally moving out of the doorframe and into Merlin's room. "Well, yes. I was hoping for some alcohol, too, and maybe a movie for distraction?"

Merlin produced a bottle of red wine from behind a stack of dog-eared books and set it on his desk, while fumbling around for something else. 

Finally, Merlin rattled a bottle of Ibuprofen in the air, before tossing it at Arthur's head. Arthur caught it calmly and proceeded to twist off the cap, emptying two into his hand. He eyed the wine with interest. "Pass that here."

"I haven't got time for a movie," said Merlin.

Arthur snorted. "You're going to listen to that on loop for the next hour, aren't you?" He nodded towards the computer, where the American coxswain's voice was now urging his men's crew of eight down the river, mid-race.

"Attack... ATTACK!!! Walk away from those motherfuckers, boys, RIGHT HERE."

"Maybe," admitted Merlin, a bit reluctantly. If there was one group of people who wouldn't judge him for his peculiar rituals, Arthur would belong to that group. At least that much could be said for the rowers.

For his part, Arthur shrugged in resignation, and sat down on Merlin's bed. He began making himself comfortable in the duvet as Merlin stared, both horrified and bemused.

"Go ahead and make yourself at home, why don't you, Arthur."

"Head of the Charles," said Arthur by way of response, ignoring Merlin's previous comment. "Peter Cipollone coxing the American men's eight in ninety-seven. Their course record still stands."

Merlin sighed, irritated. Of course Arthur would know everything about everything. He passed Arthur the bottle of wine, before picking his chair up off the floor, and setting it upright. But Merlin's annoyance gave way to genuine curiousity. "Have you raced it?"

"As a junior, when I was at Eton."

Merlin raised his eyebrows. It must be nice, having parents fork out cash for that kind of high school jaunt. "How was it, then?"

Arthur smiled, and his tired face gave way to a gleeful grin. "It made me into a proper adrenaline junkie, that's how good it was. And now I have to put up with the lot of you, to get my fix. I thought I was going to dislocate a rib today, when Jakub started rushing the slide."

Merlin smiled, settling back into his chair, and tapping up the audio. Partly to cover Arthur's whinging, and partly because, well -

"YOU HEAR THAT, BOYS? THAT'S FOR YOU. THEY'RE CHEERING FOR YOU. LET'S GO. DROP THE FUCKING HAMMER. RIGHT NOW. FUCK, YEAH. YEAH, BOYS. WALK THE FUCK AWAY."

Merlin couldn't help but break into a wide grin. "Think I could pull off his style?"

Arthur, whose eyes had been drifting shut, arms curled protectively around the bottle of wine, responded automatically to the pull of his cox's voice. His tone was speculative when he said, "I'm not really sure you have the mouth for it, Merlin."

Whatever that means, thought Merlin, his stomach curling in anticipation of the unfolding race.

*

It was winter in England. Wet and cold, cold and wet. Merlin couldn't remember the last time he had been dry and warm. His fingers were itching and burning with the cold, and as Tom motioned from the launch to change course, Merlin shifted the rudder to Port.

"On the rudder," he communicated to the crew, a huff of condensation leaving his mouth, and the boys miserably shifted their hands to accommodate the changing balance. Merlin knew the rowers were wet and cold too, but at least they were _moving_.

Merlin was trying not to look at Arthur and Lancelot's faces. He knew from experience that their features would be drawn into matching scowls. The whole crew was brooding in a thick layer of discontent. It showed, too, their rowing was tight and overly controlled. 

Every stroke, as they came up to the catch, Arthur and Lancelot's heads would part as they swung in opposite directions, towards their riggers. And then Merlin would catch a quick glimpse of Ben in six seat, grinning like a bloody fool who loved every minute of this torture. Noticing this, Merlin ruefully amended his earlier assessment; everyone was miserable except for Ben. Benjamin fucking Eaker, who hadn't stopped loving a single minute of training since trials in the gloriously warm and sunny fall.

It made Merlin feel a strong, sudden fondness for the men in his boat. And that fondness quickly gave way to unhealthy protectiveness.

Merlin's mouth curled into a smile in spite of his chattering teeth. Arthur, in stroke, quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly, as if Merlin had finally welcomed the inevitable and lost his mind.

"That's it boys," said Merlin by way of answer, his voice crackling over the speaker system in the boat. "Nice catches, there. You'll be delighted to know, I heard a rumour that Cambridge is taking today off. Something about Terry Jackson's delicate nose getting frostbite last week."

Terry Jackson was a monster of a man, posh and polite with the best, but of an almost inhuman size. Several of the Oxford rowers had admitted to having nightmares about facing him down on the indoor rowing machine.

Merlin was rewarded with some grudging laughter throughout the boat.

After a beat, Bennett's voice carried forward from the bow, his baritone words warm and full of good-will. "Cambridge only practises when their Kindergarten teacher lets them out for recess."

General chuckling, and then it was Lancelot's turn to take a swipe at the competition. "Cambridge's rowers arrive at practice hungover on all days ending in Y!"

Merlin gave the rowers a few moments to laugh, before capitalizing on the newfound cheer and relaxation in the boat.

"Alright, men, let's lengthen for ten. Swing it out, on this one."

In front of him, Arthur's mouth curled into a delighted smile as the boat picked up speed, giving him more time to swing his hands and torso out and over his knees. As Arthur relaxed into the catch, his muscles bunched in anticipation of the jump on each stroke. He seemed oblivious to the icy raindrops curling into his hair, and running down his jaw.

In the launch, Tom nodded approvingly, and leaned in to speak with Bran.

*

Arthur was stripped down to his lycra shorts, his runners strapped into the foot-stops of an ergo by the time that Merlin arrived, coffee in hand. Evans, one of the largest men on the Oxford crew, was strapped into the rowing machine directly to Arthur's right. Both rowers had clearly warmed up already, given their slightly out of breath panting.

Lancelot was behind Evans, perched delicately on the edge of an overturned crate that at one time held bungee cords, now strewn in a pile on the floor. Lancelot had his game face on - he was here to help ensure Evans hit a new personal record on his two kilometre ergo time.

Merlin, for his part, was here to make sure that Arthur didn't backslide. While more than a few of the other athletes on the crew had been making impressive progress with their ergo scores, Arthur had been holding even for the past few training cycles. While he had started out near the front of the pack, his smaller size put him at a natural disadvantage, and the training didn't seem to be advancing his fitness as fast as Tom and Bran would have liked.

The gym was vastly overrun by the Oxford women's crew, many of whom were pulling impressive pain faces on their respective ergos, apparently in the middle of a horrendous workout. Other girls, finished the workout, were up and dancing between the ergometers to some dance remixes of tacky pop music which was blaring enthusiastically over IPod speakers.

Merlin turned his attention away from the girls, who quite frankly made him feel even shorter and less muscular than the male rowers did, and focused in on Arthur. Arthur's face was pale, and closed off.

"What's the plan?" Lancelot asked Evans jovially. The joviality, Merlin knew, came from the fact that Lancelot had already completed his own test earlier in the day with the bulk of the crew.

Evans grunted. "Destroy the ergo, or die in the attempt."

"Yes," said Lancelot. "Good plan. I approve whole heartedly."

Merlin dropped his index finger to Arthur's shoulder. "I'm here," he said. "If you want me to call you through it."

Arthur shot Merlin a look that suggested he would punch Merlin in the face, if the cox tried to offer any advice before or during the imminent test.

Arthur swallowed. "Thanks," he said, nodding curtly.

"All right, boys," said Lancelot with some unholy glee. "Sitting at the half. Lane one: Oxford University. Lane two: Oxford University. Attention all crews... row!"

Both Evans and Arthur launched into motion, squeezing out the quick, short strokes to get the wheel spinning, before eventually settling into a slightly lower, rhythmic pace. True to his plan, Evans seemed to be engaged in attempt to completely obliterate the machine, which lurched forward with each stroke until it was jammed up again the crossbeam of the wall.

Arthur's erg style was more controlled, though still powerful. His eyes were focused fully on the numbers on his screen. Metres to go. Power output. It was a dangerous balancing act.

Three hundred metres into the two thousand, Lancelot lurched to his feet. "Don't sit back," he yelled at Evans. "You've got this. Ten strokes, right here to show Cambridge who's boss." Evans' power output increased slightly, and Lancelot punched the air emphatically. "Beautiful. Kick it in the face."

Arthur wasn't struggling, not yet. But Merlin could tell that he was working too hard to keep the numbers where he wanted them. Merlin, eyeing Lancelot's caged elephant routine, instinctively went for the opposite approach, crouching down just behind and to the side of Arthur's ergo.

"That's five hundred down, Arthur. Good work." Merlin's voice was quiet and focused. "Listen to me, you're going to get through this. Trust me. We're going to take this ten strokes at a time. Breathe. Ten for quick hands. Go."

Arthur's numbers held even as Merlin called him to the halfway point, using technical cues to distract Arthur from fatigue and pain. As Arthur cruised across the thousand metre mark, Merlin spared a glance for Evans' ergo screen. What Merlin saw there shocked him slightly; for all of Evans' dramatic grunting and flailing, he was only marginally ahead of Arthur in metres. Granted, Evans could probably maintain that pace all day while Arthur looked about two minutes from death.

Merlin needed at least three more minutes from Arthur.

"I need you to go," said Merlin, taking a gamble. "Now. Bring it up."

Arthur's head jerked slightly, clearly shaking his head in refusal. Merlin read between the lines - the traditional final sprint push in a two thousand metre pieces came somewhere between seven and five hundred metres left. Merlin was asking him to make a move with over nine hundred left, just as the worst of the pain and psychological doubt was setting in. This was the point at which half a minute would seem like an endless black hole of pain.

"Arthur," said Merlin, dropping his voice in volume. "On the water, you row with a lot of heart. You're trying to control this with your head, and it's not going to work. I know I'm asking a lot, but you've got to trust me. I need you to be brave, right now, you've got a job to do."

Merlin could see whatever demons Arthur was fighting chase each other across his face, before Arthur's breathing steadied itself and the drive of his stroke gained new purpose and determination.

Oh God, thought Merlin. Arthur was in for a new level of pain.

"Pendragon," bellowed Merlin with a crooked smile. "This is your mother fucking seat race. Walk the fuck away."

A brief look of amusement and disbelief flashed across Arthur's face, but his stroke rate jumped up two beats.

"Yeah boys," said Merlin in his best imitation of an American accent. "You're walking. Hold it steady. Press, go. Pressssss. GO."

By the time Arthur hit the five hundred metres left mark, a crowd of Oxford Women's rowers had gathered to watch. Evans and Arthur, two of the most charming and generally impressive OUBC athletes were battling it out on the erg, trading the lead back and forth by mere metres.

One of the girls let out a low wolf-whistle, while others called out cheers and abuse by turns. There didn't seem to be a clear favourite, just general enthusiasm at the prospect of two muscular young men trying to commit themselves to an early grave. The girls seemed to equally enjoyed the show that Lancelot was putting on, hopping up and down, swearing up a storm at Evans to spur him on.

Merlin was dimly aware of all this, in his periphery, but he was more concerned about Arthur. He had a flash of panic, that he had pushed Arthur too fast, too soon, and was about to watch his stroke seat fall unconscious before getting to the finish line. Arthur's face was a deep shade of red, and his breathing was becoming erratic. "Would this be considered murder in a court of law?" was Merlin's irrational, fleeting thought.

"Forty strokes left," said Merlin, his voice pitched low. "That's nothing. This is your race, Arthur. You've earned it, it's yours to take. Bring it up. Shift it up, here!"

Merlin counted out the final strokes for Arthur in increments of seven, each proving progressively more powerful than the seven before. A hollow, vacant look settled on Arthur's face and Merlin wasn't quite sure how he managed to keep a hold of the ergo's handle, as the metre count ticked down to zero.

It had always amazed Merlin how the rowers could go from maximum power one second, to doubled over and unable to lift a finger the next. A bit out character, he punched the air, high on adrenaline and smacked Arthur's back in congratulations.

"Emrys," croaked Arthur, gasping for breathe. "You bastard. I hate you, you are a psychopath and a lunatic. Never speak to me again."

"You just took ten seconds off your last time, Arthur. That's incredible.You just beat _Evans_. No offense meant, Evans."

Evans laughed, a bit giddily, from over where Lancelot was pounding him on the back. He was struggling with the foot straps, trying to remove his feet from the machine. He waved a hand in friendly sportsmanship. "Just beat my personal best. S'ok."

Arthur glared at Merlin and waved his hand urgently towards the waste bin. "Basket," he demanded, before turning his head and throwing up over the floor of the gym.


End file.
